


Daddy's Little Girl

by GentlyWithAChainsaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Daddy/Baby, Diapers, Disturbing Themes, Forced Feminization, Forced Infantilism, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-con touching, Stalking, non-con infantilism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentlyWithAChainsaw/pseuds/GentlyWithAChainsaw
Summary: Derek has always wanted a little girl of his own.Only Stiles is available.Derek decides that won't be a problem.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 16
Kudos: 589





	Daddy's Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Forever ago someone prompted a duo forced infantilism/forced feminization fic and it only took me like two years to write it.
> 
> It we haven't met yet, hi! This is forced infantilism. No magical de-aging or anything going on here, just humans kidnapped, drugged, and treated like babies. Please let me know if I missed any tags!
> 
> Also, I'm going to keep using "the Society" as my name for the shadowy organization that kidnaps humans, because the first time I used it it was a very hasty and thoughtless choice, and I unreservedly love that some other authors are also using it in their forced infantilism fic. This isn't the same Society as in the Derek's Baby Boy universe, but it's basically the same in that I really don't care to give it any meaningful backstory. It rules werewolves and it kidnaps humans and it has the most boring and cliched name possible and that's all you need to know!

Derek has been on the Society's adoption list for two years when he gets the call telling him that, once again, the adoption cycle will end without a baby being placed in his arms. 

“You’re kidding me,” he snaps, officially fed up with the bureaucratic shit. “You promised me I’d be getting her by the end of this year. What’s the hold up?” 

“I’m sorry, Alpha Hale, but you know we have very strict criteria for the humans we choose for adoptions. Females are very hard to find, and you were quite specific about characteristics your little girl can’t have.” 

Nothing that would remind him of Kate. He hadn’t thought that was too much to ask. “Seriously? It’s this hard to locate a single girl who doesn’t have short brown hair? I thought I was first in line for a girl this cycle.” 

The Society rep on the phone is quiet for a minute, then says awkwardly, “You are close to the top, but we do occasionally prioritize... other factors.” 

He knows what that means. Werewolves are so freaking hierarchical. The Society, the closest thing werewolves have to a government, love to keep influential werewolves happy, and Derek’s pack is all but nonexistent. 

Being approved for adoption is a huge status symbol in the werewolf world. It’s been tradition for the last fifty years, once werewolves began to recover from a near-century of war with hunters. Hunting families began to go underground. Werewolves pursued them to stamp out the threat they posed and avoid another war. 

But werewolves were determined to show the humanity the hunters had not. Teenagers in the hunting families, old enough to be considered a threat but young enough to inspire pity, were shown mercy. They were neutralized and given to werewolves to be cared for forever. It became a source of pride for werewolves to regress humans to the point that they didn’t even remember that they had once held weapons instead of rattles; that they aimed wolfsbane-laced knives at the chests they now snuggled contentedly against as they were read a bedtime story. 

After so many years, the Society has had to scrounge a little. Many of the adoption candidates they find are generations removed from any actual hunters; most never even know that werewolves exist. It’s not necessarily fair, but, then, neither is the brutal annihilation of werewolf families by hunters. And the babies aren’t treated badly by any means. The tenderness they’re meant to be shown is what had made Derek so eager to finally have a baby of his own. 

He's followed every single one of the Society’s rules, paid every fee and more than a few bribes. He’s completed every class and visited Alphas with babies of their own, until cuddling and cooing down at a human adult became second nature. He has a nursery already prepared. Waiting through another cycle is completely unacceptable. 

“We do have one surplus boy,” the Society rep says tentatively, sensing his fury down the phone line. “A late addition to this cycle. We were going to offer him to another pack, but he comes from your old hometown, so if you wanted him…” 

“An Argent?” 

“Oh, no. Of course not. His great-great grandfather was a hunter in Poland...quite a tenuous link, since there’s no evidence his immediate family even knows about werewolves, but he’s a lovely boy, and he fit all our criteria. Any Alpha will be lucky to have him.” 

Derek sighs. His Society rep knows full well that Derek doesn’t care that the boy doesn’t know about werewolves—he’s told the rep before he would actually prefer a baby with no immediate hunting link, since there will be no violent streak in his baby he’ll have to smooth away. “Do you have a picture? Send it in an email.” He doesn’t want them saying he’s not trying in good faith to make it work, but he has no intention of accepting a boy. He’s always been drawn to girls—Paige; Kate; his little sisters and cousins. He lost each of them, terribly. This is meant to be his re-do. 

The email comes through quickly and Derek smacks the keys a little harder than necessary so the rep can hear through the phone that he’s really looking. He plans to just take a cursory glance, to identify something he can plausibly reject. 

Instead...he keeps looking. He’s always associated teenage boys with, well, _teenage boys._ Sweat and testosterone and simmering violence. But this human looks shy and sweet. Maybe even delicate. His hands are crammed in the pockets of a red hoodie, eyes peeping up shyly behind long lashes. It’s a cheap driver’s license picture, but there’s a vitality that comes through even in the poor quality of the photo. 

He thinks of the nursery that’s been empty for far too long upstairs, painted cream and pink, the drawers already stacked with dresses and bows. 

After he’d learned about the Society adoption program he knew at once he needed to have a girl, beautiful and fragile but totally safe and innocent in his arms. He’d thought that was non-negotiable. 

But maybe it can be compromised a little. 

X 

Stiles never sees them coming. He has no idea that he’s been the target of a multi-month surveillance operation, kicked off when he did one of those DNA genealogy kits. The results confirmed that, shocker, the Polish kid is, like _super-Polish_ , and he’d basically forgotten about them. But the results went right to a database tracking the lineage of hunting families, and within days his picture was being sent to werewolves paying top dollar for the privilege of _adopting_ him. 

As he goes about his days, homework and college prep and video games, he has no idea that pink onesies are being ordered to fit him, along with princess-patterned diapers in just the right size to keep him comfy. He goes for a physical required for the lacrosse team, unaware that the results are pored over by the group which has tidily secured his fate. 

And when he chooses one day to cut through the woods on his way home from school, when his car is in the shop and he doesn’t feel like asking someone for a ride, he doesn’t know that a team of werewolves sets out in pursuit, armed with a hypodermic needle to keep the little one quiet on her way to her new home. He hears the slightest rustling behind him, but he hasn’t even turned around before they’re upon him. He’s under so quickly that he never hears them referring to him by his new name, which they’ve been instructed to use at all times to keep their client happy. 

Baby Stella will be with her Daddy soon. 

# 

When Stiles wakes up the first thing he notes is that his physical self is incredibly comfortable, in contrast to the utter terror pounding through him from the moment he has his awareness back. He cracks his eyes open slowly, feeling by them sear at the first bit of light, and stares up at a plastic dome encasing him. There’s the slightest crack at the top, through which floats a Muzak lullaby and a buzz of conversation. 

“And she’s up!” a female voice says, and the two halves of the dome retract down. A woman appears above him, beaming. She puts one hand behind his neck and one just below his waist and lifts him easily, cradling him in her arms as if he weighs nothing. 

“What’s happening?” Stiles croaks. His voice is so rusty that it hurts to speak. “Where ‘m I?” 

“No, no,” she chides. One arm slides to the small of his back and the other disappears so she can root inside her pocket. She’s carrying him one-handed, but he barely slips. “I know you’re fussy, little one, but this is a very special day for your daddy, and we don’t want to upset him with a tantrum.” From her pocket she pulls out a lilac-colored pacifier, attached to a pink satin strap frilled with lace. She slips it over Stiles’ head and works the pacifier into his mouth. The strap is so tight he can’t spit it out; the rubber nipple so large his tongue is instantly sedated. “There we go, good girl. Let’s get you all pretty for the ceremony.” 

As she turns him to place him down on a padded table he sees a number of other cots covered by plastic domes. Nurses are moving between them, checking vital signs. Incubators, he thinks hysterically. But big enough for someone his size. The room is full of kidnap victims like him— 

“Oh, I know, it’s so scary being in a new place, isn’t it?” the woman murmurs. She’s removing his clothes. Not what he remembers putting on before he left his house, but a plain white onesie with snaps down his front and between his legs. “But you’ve been so good this past week, sweetheart. Slept right through all your shots and treatments…” 

A _week? Shots?_ No wonder he can barely move his arms and legs to fight against her. He tries, trying just to focus on making one hand a fist as she passes a warm sponge over his torso, but she only hums out a soft “Ah-ah,” as she takes his folded hand and gently slides it into a mitten. “Let’s keep being Daddy’s perfect little angel, hm? He’s been so proud to hear about your progress. And he brought you your special ceremony dress!” She proudly displays a pink dress with a wide, frilly skirt. “Hold still for me, we don’t want it to wrinkle.” 

Stiles does _not_ follow that directive, but somehow even in his frantic thrashing she manages to get the dress over his head. The material is incredibly soft against his skin— _too_ soft. What the fuck happened to his body hair? _What the fuck is going on?_

“One thing more,” the nurse says, holding up a headband with a huge artificial pink flower on it. “There we go. Oh, my goodness, look at this pretty little baby. Now, sweetheart, we still have a few hours before the ceremony, so you can nap until then. But you’ll be with your daddy very, very soon. He’s going to take care of you from now on. I bet you feel scared and confused right now, huh?” She picks him up and holds him against her chest again, rocking him soothingly. “You remember that you used to be a grown-up like me, don’t you? But that’s not going to be your life anymore. Daddy adopted you, and adoptions are final. You don’t have to worry about anything from now on. Daddy will take care of everything.” 

This must be a dream. Stiles keeps thrashing, trying now to see if he can wake himself up by tossing himself out of her arms, but she holds him too tightly. 

“I bet you also remember being a boy,” she says, still in that gentle voice. “But you’re very special, sweetheart. Daddy saw that. You’re his little girl now. Aren’t you lucky? You daddy loves his baby girl very much.” 

She lays him back down inside the incubator he came from. The halves of the plastic dome come up so quickly he doesn’t have any time to roll away. “Try to nap, sweetheart,” the nurse says, beaming down at him. “Daddy is on his way.” 

For what feels like an eternity afterwards, Stiles tries everything—screaming behind the pacifier, banging his shoulder against the plastic dome, trying to sit up or wriggle his hands out of the mittens. Nothing happens. The pacifier in his mouth is so large that he has to suck on it rhythmically just to breathe, and soon he finds that if he stops even for a moment his heart rate speeds up so much he has to start again just to comfort himself. He can hear other captives being woken up and soothed by the nurses. _No tantrums, little one. Daddy can’t wait to meet his baby boy. Hold still so we can get you dressed for the ceremony._ As far as he can tell, nobody makes any progress in fighting back. After a few hours he’s too exhausted to keep up the useless struggling, and he wonders bitterly if they woke him up so early specifically so that would happen. Now when the _ceremony_ rolls around, whatever the fuck that means, he’s too spent to do anything but lie there. 

Finally the voices around him hush with anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye he can see incubators being wheeled out of the room, one at a time. The nurse who had woken him up catches his eye at one point, and scrunches up her nose apologetically. “Almost your turn, sweetheart!” 

He whimpers in fright, trying to do _anything_ , even just wriggle the headband off, but whatever they’ve done to him seems to have filled his body with lead. His vision almost whites out from terror when he realizes he’s the last incubator left and the nurse is coming towards him with a big smile. He’s rolled out of the room and down a bright hall, then there are a few moments of darkness before he’s wheeled out into a blinding spotlight. 

“Our last adoption of the evening is a very special little girl,” a voice booms out. “We’re pleased to confirm the adoption of baby Stella, descendant of the Storegaard hunting family, by her daddy, Derek Hale.“ 

There’s a click and the dome above him slides away. He’s lifted into the light by the nurse and displayed proudly to what appears to be an amphitheater-sized crowd. There’s a polite round of applause as he squints out in horror, trying to understand what’s happening. 

Then he’s being deposited into another set of arms. “Hi, princess,” the man holding him breathes, beaming down at Stiles with pure adoration in his eyes. “Daddy’s got you, sweet girl. Don’t cry.” 

Stiles tries to struggle away from him, but the man only holds him tighter. His finger brushes reverently over the curve of Stiles’ cheek. He turns to shake the hand of the announcer, in a moment captured by more flashbulbs, but even if one-handed grip is so tight Stiles can’t wiggle free. As the man carries him off the stage his hand comes up to cup the side of Stiles’ head. His nose drops into Stiles’ hair and Stiles can hear him inhaling deeply, a sound of pure contentment. 

“You can head this way, Derek,” the nurse says cheerfully, and the man banks left into a side room offstage. The lighting here is soft, and twinkly lullaby music is playing out of a hidden speaker. Stiles twists, trying to see as much as he can, and the man—Derek—laughs, sounding almost enchanted. “So curious, aren’t you, little one? And you’re so beautiful. Daddy is so happy to finally be holding you.” He settles into a rocking chair, still beaming down at Stiles. “Were you a good girl for the nurses?” 

“Oh, she _was,”_ the nurse says. “A little fussy as she waited to meet you, but before that she was a perfect little princess. And she’s taking to the pacifier very well. The shots to induce aphasia will take another week or so to take full effect, so we love to see a baby not fighting the paci. You have a wonderful little girl there, Alpha Hale.” 

“Daddy can’t wait to show you all your new clothes and toys,” Derek coos. “And isn’t your headband pretty? Daddy has lots to match your pacifier straps. Just one more little trip for us and we’ll be home, and then no more trips, ever! Daddy promises. We’ll be all safe and happy in our den. Daddy will take care of his Stella forever and ever…” 

Stiles whimpers, letting his body go lax as he accepts that this isn’t a dream. He doesn’t know who—or _what_ —these people are, but apparently there are lots of them, and they’ve already done unspeakable things to him to make sure he can’t escape. Tears of fear and resignation fill his eyes and he sniffles pathetically, feeling his mind hit a wall as he tries hopelessly to figure out what to do when he can’t do _anything_. 

Derek croons at him, kissing away the first tear that starts to fall. “Sleepy angel. It’s been a long day, huh? Let’s get you out of your fancy clothes and into a nice sleeper.” 

He stands, barely having to shift his weight to keep Stiles snug in his arms, and lays him down on another raised table, which Stiles now sees is a changing table. Derek removes the dress and headband, then cups Stiles’ crotch. For the first time, Stiles sees that he’s wearing a diaper. 

“Looks like you’re dry, but let’s get you in something fresh for the trip,” Derek says. He removes the diaper with practiced ease, then squirts some white cream into his hands and rubs it into Stiles’ most sensitive areas. He squeaks, trying again to wriggle away, and is gently hushed by Derek. “Daddy’s just doing his job,” Derek explains kindly. “Maybe the humans you used to live with told you that it wasn’t nice for people to touch your private parts, but now that you’re with Daddy you’ll have to get used to Daddy making you all clean and comfortable.” He lifts a container of baby powder and sprinkles it down generously before pulling out a thick pale pink diaper and sliding it under Stiles’ ass. “There we go,” he says proudly, doing up the straps, before dropping a loud “Mwah!” kiss on Stiles’ belly. 

Stiles expects the diaper to feel horribly uncomfortable, but he barely feels it at all. Has his body already adapted to this? Have they kept him like this for the past week, replacing the diaper every time he’s released his bladder? He whimpers again, and Derek hushes him lovingly. “Daddy’s getting your sleeper, princess. Here we go!” He pulls it out of a bag at his feet, displaying it so Stiles’ can read the words in flowery script: _Daddy’s Best Girl._

The nurse stays quiet as Derek re-dresses Stiles, stepping forward only once he’s been lifted back into Derek’s strong, warm embrace. “You’ll probably want to leave before it gets too late. If you give me Stella I’ll get her all nice and comfy for the trip home.” 

Derek sighs before pressing a lingering kiss onto Stiles’ forehead. “I guess it’s that time. Can I take the pain? I don’t want it to hurt her at all.” 

“No, no. It’s not an injection. We’ll just seal her incubator for a few quick seconds and use gas until she’s gone back to dreamland.” 

Stiles can barely understand what they’re saying, but he knows he doesn’t want Nurse Ratchet here to touch him again, especially if she’s talking about gas. When Derek starts to transfer him over into her arms Stiles shrieks as loudly as he can behind the gag and tries to hold onto Derek’s shirt. 

“It’s okay, princess,” Derek coos. “Daddy’s right here. We’ll be home very soon, I promise.” 

Stiles flails as the nurse tries to deposit him back in the cot. She tsks, holding him down easily. “You’re just Miss Attitude today, aren’t you? Here we go, little girl. Breathe in nice and deep for your daddy.” 

The dome springs up again, but this time there’s no crack at the top. Stiles hears a hiss by his ear and the air around him is suddenly thick and hazy. His head spins and his vision goes blurry. He’s out before the glass slides open again and Derek worriedly cups his cheek, making sure his baby girl is as perfect as she was when they placed her into his arms ten minutes earlier.


End file.
